


Blood Runs Red

by starksborn



Series: Quicksand [4]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25605343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starksborn/pseuds/starksborn
Summary: Killbane takes a long swallow of bourbon and drops the glass with a heavy thud.“So, what ideas does the Butcher of Stilwater have rolling around in that fucked up head of yours?”
Relationships: Boss (Saints Row)/Eddie "Killbane" Pryor
Series: Quicksand [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/344660
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Blood Runs Red

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE BITCH I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME!!! 
> 
> Man it's been a wild uh *checks notes* four years?

_It started with a drink,  
_ _to wash away my mind._

_\-----------------------------_

The Boss wakes up drowning.

Or at least, they _had_ been, in whatever dark crevice of their mind they'd slipped into when they'd passed out. For a while they were back on that fucking boat, cursed with the knowledge of what was coming and no way to stop it, and then they'd been underwater again. The air ran out, they felt their lungs burning until the heat spread to their whole body and the acute feeling of aspirating on grimy, salty sea overcame all of their senses.

They bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily until the pain in their chest rises and tells them to stop, and as they look down they realize the cause of the nightmare. They'd pulled a one-man raid on STAG, they'd gotten shot. They almost drowned trying to pull their own ass out of the harbor, and after that they'd limped up the street to the Saints HQ parking garage. 

They frown.

No, that last part isn't right. 

The Saints HQ is not up the street from where they surfaced. 

So, what is? 

“Well it's about time,” says a voice to their right. They blink and turn their head to find Killbane stretched out in bed next to them. He's balancing an ash tray on his chest, a cigar in his mouth, and the TV remote in one hand. “I was beginning to think you kicked the goddamned bucket on me.” 

“Eddie?” the Boss asks, voice hoarse and dazed. They can see his lip curl at the use of his name. They expect him to lash out about it. 

He doesn't. 

_I'm really fucked up,_ they think. If he's taking enough pity on them to let the use of his name slide, they're in trouble. Deep trouble. 

_No,_ they think. They've been in trouble for months now. They've been in trouble since they ran into him in that club, since they made the choice to drown their sorrows in him, since they made the choice to _continue_ doing so despite countless reasons not too.   
****

_**No**_ , they think again. They've been in trouble since Johnny died. This has less to do with Killbane himself and _everything_ to do with Johnny. 

He was their anchor. Their rock. Their north star on their moral compass. 

He was _everything,_ until he wasn't, and without him the Boss is nothing, and their life is nothing, and nothing they do has any meaning. Nothing they do gives them any _feeling_. Johnny wormed his way into their heart and he made himself at home and when his body fell out of the sky along with a jet airliner, he took his home with him, and the only thing left inside their chest was a bleeding, gaping _wound_. 

A wound that somehow, Killbane has been filling. Killbane and drugs, and booze, and a recklessness that's almost gotten the Boss killed finally, sure, but him too. There is certainly no discounting how well he has managed to fit inside the ruins Johnny left. 

“What happened?” they ask. They blink a few times, willing themself not to fucking lose it now; not here, not in front of him. They take a breath and ignore the pain lighting up their nerves as they force the derailing train of thought back down to whence it came; down, down, down, back into that nothingness that's so determined to swallow them whole. 

“You tried to kill STAG,” Killbane says. Smoke trails out of his nostrils, catching the light as it dances towards the ceiling. “Like, apparently fucking _all_ of them by yourself, which was fucking stupid by the way. They called out the snipers, you got shot, and decided to fuck up _my_ day by crawling your half-dead, waterlogged ass into my garage.” 

Right.

That's right. 

That is what building is up the street from the dock. 

“You were closest,” the Boss says. They find themself unable to raise their voice above a whisper, and they want to shoot themself for it.

“Yeah well,” he drawls, “next time find a different corner to die on. It's only polite.”

“How long have I been out?” they ask. 

“This time?” Killbane turns and looks at the clock on the nightstand. “About eight hours.” 

“This time?” 

“You passed out in the shower, ruined my fucking suit by the way and I _am_ sending a bill,” he explains, “and I had to get you awake to finish patching you up. Went out _again_ after, and I had to wake you to get you to take some goddamn drugs, and then you've been out since.” 

The Boss doesn't even bother to ask what _kind_ of drugs. They can feel the familiar, warm feeling of morphine coating their veins. It seems to be dulling everything but the fire in their chest. 

“Wait, how long has it been since you found me?” they ask. 

“'Bout two days, give or take,” he says. 

“Fuck!” 

“Turns out you're not invincible, who knew right?” he remarks sarcastically. The Boss swears again and begins shuffling to the side of the bed. 

“I have to go,” they mumble, “the gang...christ they all think I'm dead.” 

“The whole city does,” says Killbane. He sits up, tapping ash off his cigar and setting the tray on his nightstand. “STAG released a statement saying even though they haven't found your body yet, they're sure they finally got you.” 

The Boss can't help the tears bubbling up to the surface, and they can't stop the choked sob that rips through their throat. 

They're losing. 

They're losing their city, their gang, their reputation... they are losing everything and anything they have worked for, and there is nothing they can do to stop it. Not when so much they have done recently has only aided the formation of their current situation. They're hundreds of feet above sea level, and yet, they are _still_ drowning. 

“All for a fucking publicity stunt,” they choke. 

“...what?” Killbane asks. 

“The fucking bank. _Loren's_ bank,” they say softly. “It was supposed to be a publicity stunt for the fucking movie Birk was working on. I...I didn't know it was his. I didn't know it was the Syndicate's, I didn't know about Steelport...I just didn't know.” 

For a long moment, Killbane doesn't say anything at all. 

“You're tellin' me you walked in there blind?” he finally asks. He turns, looking over his shoulder at them from across the other side of the bed. The Boss is leaning against it, putting their weight on their hands having all but entirely given up on trying to stand. They let out a bitter laugh and shrug their shoulders. 

“Yeah, pretty much. That's why Johnny was against it,” they say. “He told me I didn't know what I was doing and with each passing day I have to live with realizing more and more how right he was, and how I threw it back at him. For the first time in a long time I have no fucking idea what I'm doing and I don't know how to stop anything that's about to happen.

“Fuck, man, why am I even telling you this? You're probably taking notes so you can just use it against me later.” The Boss tilts their head towards the ceiling and brushes a hand through their hair. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe they can get more drugs off Killbane and sleep this whole thing off, and just...disappear. 

Let everyone think they're dead, let the current situation play out however it will, and just fuck off to nowhere. 

_Here lies The Boss,_ they think, _lived as a butcher. Died as a coward.  
_

Killbane grunts as he rises from the bed. The Boss isn't sure what to make of it, whether there is judgment in the noise or worse, pity. He stretches, cracking his neck as he does, and the trilling sound of a breaking news update plays on the TV. Killbane reaches for his whiskey glass and crosses the room to where the bottle of Johnnie Walker sits on his dresser. He pours a stiff drink and then stops short as his eyes fall onto the television. Jane Valderamma's voice comes from the speakers. 

“ _Earlier this evening STAG performed a raid on the Steelport Arena, a building owned by notorious wrestler and alleged gang leader, Eddie 'Killbane' Pryor. Just minutes ago, STAG released the following video from inside the arena._ ”

The camera feed changes from Jane, to footage of Cyrus Temple standing in the middle of the Murderbrawl ring holding a microphone. 

“ _It's no secret Killbane uses profits from Murderbrawl to fund his gang activities,_ ” says Cyrus. He looks directly at the camera as he speaks. “ _Hell, it's in the name of the event. Murderbrawl. For too long this city has let fear rule, and for too long that fear has led to the televised brutalization and murder of innocent people. STAG says no more! There will_ _ **be**_ _no Murderbrawl this year. Not now, not ever again. I_ _ **will**_ _protect this city._ ” 

The sound of Killbane dropping both his glass, and the half filled bottle of liquor echoes throughout the room like a gunshot. 

“ _ **I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch**_.” He does not yell the words, and he does not scream them, and that is what draws the Boss's attention out of their self pitying reverie. They're used to Killbane yelling and being overly emotive, especially when he's angry. 

Somehow, the man only lowering his voice and growling out the threat is infinitely more terrifying than if he were screaming. 

It is also at this point, that a solution to the Boss's problems manifests itself in their mind. They suck in a sudden breath at the thought and turn more to face him. Killbane stares at the TV, watching the rest of the segment silently with his fists clenched by his side and his eyes narrowed beneath his mask. 

“We have to do something about Cyrus,” the Boss finally says. He glances over at them. 

“I'm going to,” he says quietly. 

“How?” they ask sharply. “You have a plan? Do you even know anything about Cyrus? Or are you going to let your emotions get the better of you and run in blind, like I did with you and Loren?” 

Killbane's jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, and the Boss can see his neck and shoulders tensing in the glow of the TV as he considers their words. 

“What's your point?” he asks. The Boss scoffs. 

“My point is that Cyrus is my enemy, and now he's made himself your enemy, and if I can be allowed one cliché...” 

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” says Killbane. 

“Cyrus is a problem that affects all of us here,” the Boss says. “We can't do our thing if he's out there trying to do his thing, but if we were to pool our resources; me with the Saints, you with the Luchadores, and Matt with the Deckers, that fucker wouldn't known what hit him. I think one thing we can agree on is that this is _our_ city, not his, and he doesn't get to decide who stands at the top of it.” 

Killbane flexes his fingers and purses his lips as he digests what they've said. He knows they're right but pride tells him he can take down Temple just fine on his own even as logically, he knows that he cannot. They may not know it, but Killbane has been in the same quandary as the Boss since STAG showed up: he's simply unprepared to hold off a full scale military invasion of the entire city. 

Truthfully he'd been hoping that STAG and the Saints would just kill each other and allow him to slip by unnoticed. 

It has now become glaringly obvious that this will not come to pass. 

He lets out another deep growl as he turns from the TV and storms out of the bedroom. The Boss quirks an eyebrow and deigns to follow. It takes them a moment to get their legs under them, and as they lean against furniture and walls for support they realize suddenly that they are ravenously hungry. Killbane is roughly slinging ice into a glass in the kitchen. He slams the freezer door shut with enough force that it simply bounces back open at him. 

“ _Motherfucker_!” he yells.

“The fridge didn't jack your ring, you know,” the Boss says. They all but collapse into a seat at his dining table, and the sound of the chair leg scraping across the floor reminds them of what happened the last time they were at this table. 

They can't ignore the scratches they left on the wood finish, and they mindlessly run a finger over them as they look over at Killbane. He's still standing in front of the half open freezer, shoulders rising and falling with every deep breath he takes, and they can tell he is on the verge of absolutely losing it. 

A thought whispers through the back of their mind, spoken by the voice that sounds so much like Johnny's ghost, that if Killbane is to plunge himself off the deep end tonight there is no telling where that will leave them. 

There's no reason why, as he is currently unable to strike at Cyrus for his transgressions, that Killbane would not simply take his anger out on the Boss. After all, the last couple of months aside, they have certainly caused just as much trouble for him. 

Killbane lets out a long, stiff breath. The Boss watches, suddenly acutely aware they are without the guard, and comfort of their sunglasses, as the veritable mountain of a man reaches up with one hand to gently shut the freezer door. His movements are slow and measured, and they can tell he's putting all of his effort into keeping his head on straight. He moves out of the kitchen and grabs a fresh bottle of bourbon, filling his glass almost to the brim before taking a seat at the other end of the table. 

“I want Cyrus Temple fucking dead, and right now I don't care how that happens,” he says. He takes a long swallow of bourbon and drops the glass with a heavy thud.

“So, what ideas does the Butcher of Stilwater have rolling around in that fucked up head of yours?”

\------------------------------------------------

_You were dressed for killing,  
_ _but I've been dead for some time._

**Author's Note:**

> It has always been my intention, since I started working back in 2015 on this series, that it would eventually go completely divergent from the canon of SR3. I got hooked on the idea of the Boss and Killbane eventually teaming up to take down Cyrus, and the drama that will unfold when they finally have to confess what they have been doing, and hopefully convince the Saints it is a temporary truce to fight a greater evil. 
> 
> Or is it? 
> 
> I know this seems impossibly short considering how long I went without updating but you bet your ass I've started the next installment. I'm stuck working almost 40 hours a week which, knock on wood in these trying pandemic times I'm working at all, but it also means I have almost 40 hours a week in which to marinate on this story. 
> 
> SR3 getting remastered and making me fall in love with the world all over again has absolutely helped.


End file.
